


Forget to breathe

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASMR, Anal Fingering, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sherlock's Curls, Sherlock's Hair, Smut, Top John, but it's PORN, i don't know where this came from, like literally - Freeform, this is just PORN!, yes you heard that right!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is agitated. John calms him down. </p>
<p>Inspired by this picture<br/><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget to breathe

“Nothing makes sense, John. Nothing!”

Sherlock paced, nervous and irritated, back and forth in the living room – a hand in his hair, the other torturing the hem of his dressing gown.

From the couch John watched, frowning.

“Sherlock.”

“And don’t even get me started on Lestrade!” Sherlock stopped, threw his hands out. “He’s being even more moronic than usual. There is no point in Scotland Yard whatsoever, may as well just abolish it!”

The case they had taken on had started as barely a seven – a robbery – but had turned out to be quite the puzzle when the valuables were found in Capetown an hour after they were reported stolen, their owner dead, nobody to blame. Sherlock kept insisting there was something behind it – Lestrade intended to rule it out as a simple case of suicide.

When Sherlock huffed again, John stood from the couch, came close.

“Sherlock.” He put a hand on the younger man’s elbow. “Here. Lie down.”

“John…”, Sherlock protested. John only pushed a little, firm but gentle.

“Just, hear me out.”

Clearly intending to maintain his façade of annoyance, Sherlock obeyed by flopping himself down on the couch, huffing again, throwing a hand over his eyes.

“Good man. Scoot up – put your head on here,” John said, patting the armrest lightly. Again Sherlock did as he was asked, although a bit stiffly; and once his head was suitably positioned, John pulled a chair next to the couch and sat down. His hands went into Sherlock’s hair.

“What are you…”

“Shhh,”John murmured. “Close your eyes. Just let me try.”

With just his fingers, he started stroking. From the forehead; into the curls there, towards the top of the head, slowly. His fingers traced; parted the thick strands; stroked down, careful, and precise. Index fingers reached the back of the head that touched the armrest, and then, slowly, swept up again, over Sherlock’s ears, calm and controlled, tracing the outline there, until they reached the temples.

Sherlock adjusted himself on the couch, shrugged his shoulders to settle properly.

“Shhh,” John murmured again. “Relax now.”

He widened his fingers and pushed them into the curls. In unison, gently, his thumbs stroked over the temples; then the hands dove into the hair, fingers curled around generous handfuls. John squeezed, slowly, but firmly, until he felt the scalp tense a little.

  
Sherlock’s head arched back very slightly, and his lips opened.

“Shhh…”

Still massaging, John released the hair and raked his fingers through it, still slow, still calm, until they reached the back of the head; then he pushed them through the hair in the opposite direction, ruffling; watching the curls rise and fall back. He twirled some of the longer ones around his index and middle fingers, coiled them around, let them spiral out again. Smiled at how tightly they sprung back. He grabbed more strands in his fingers and squeezed, tight.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock’s neck arched gently, and he moaned.

“That’s it. That’s it, Sherlock. You’re so beautiful.”

John kept his voice even and low. He let his hands in Sherlock’s hair slow down even more, but didn’t stop their movements as he climbed off the chair, knelt next to the couch; stroked Sherlock’s forehead with a palm.

Sherlock lay there, letting John pet him, breath deep and even. John reached down; took his lips in a kiss. The warmth and softness drew him in as usual and he pushed deeper, moaned back when Sherlock opened his mouth obediently, made space for his tongue.  
John kissed, mouth pushing and pulling in a lazy rhythm. Bit Sherlock’s full lower lip, pulled a little, went in to bite his top lip. Felt a lick of something burning in his insides when Sherlock let himself be bitten, put himself on offer.

“These, off,” John growled when he had the chance, patting at Sherlock’s lounging pants. Of course he could have undressed Sherlock himself – but it felt much sexier to know he was undressing himself for John. Much better to be still kissing him while he was doing it, feel his hands struggle a bit, know that he was distracting him.

Sherlock pushed his bottoms off – had to lift his upper body a bit, still kept kissing John, eyes still closed and chasing his mouth – and, gently, John wrapped his hand around his cock, already hard and hot and damp.

“Ah!” Sherlock cried, softly. John let his mouth go and knelt up, moved a little towards the other end of the couch, where the part of Sherlock’s body that he most wanted to get to was. His hand held Sherlock firmly, and with the other John reached into the drawer in the coffee table, grabbed the small tube of lube they kept there. His hands soon were slicked; the next stroke on Sherlock’s cock drew a deep inhale from the younger man, made him arch his back.

“Shhh.”

John’s eyes drank the vision in front of him. Sherlock, laid out like an offering, nude in the lower part of his body, his skin, white and smooth and perfect; one of his hands pushing his shirt up slightly, enough to expose his abdomen, almost enough to show his right nipple, _almost_. John’s mouth watered, but he concentrated on stroking Sherlock – up, down, _up, down –_ keeping up the pressure with his fingers.

Sherlock moaned softly again, and arched his lower back, bent his knees a little. His thighs fell open gently; without opening his eyes, he reached out and grabbed John’s free hand, guided it between his legs.  
John didn’t bother marvelling at how Sherlock knew exactly where John’s arm was; nothing of Sherlock surprised him, anymore - even when it did. He smiled; he brought his slicked fingers near Sherlock’s entrance. Pushed in with the index – all the way in, to the last knuckle – smiled, satisfied, at the strong shudder that caused in Sherlock’s body. He pulled out, then pushed in again smoothly with both index and middle finger.

“John…” Sherlock groaned under his breath. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

Still smiling, though his throat was dry and his cock was hard as rock, John set a steady rhythm with both hands – _in, out, up, down._ Listened to Sherlock’s breathing; increased the pressure, the speed, according to his reactions.  
A particularly firm stroke on his glans and Sherlock shuddered again, then turned his head towards him, and opened his eyes. They were huge, hazy, almost watery out of pleasure; his lips were swollen and red.

John thought he could come right there and then like a teenager.

“Three,” Sherlock said. His hand reached out and grabbed John’s again; John swallowed. Took a deep breath himself, then pulled his fingers out; pushed in again – index, middle, and ring finger. Slightly curved, pads upwards, ready to press, stroke.  
John kept his fingers firm inside Sherlock’s body and resumed his strokes on his cock – _up and down, faster, tighter_ – until Sherlock was moaning, arching his lower back; _fucking himself on John’s fingers_. The pressure and the warmth inside were maddening and John wanted to slow down, open his own trousers and take himself in hand, but he made himself keep going, wanted to watch. Felt Sherlock’s orgasm start from deep in his belly, around his fingers inside him, the spasms over and under them; the shuddering of his hips.

With a breathless moan, Sherlock came. His back arched, his eyelashes fluttered. His beautiful, swollen mouth, still open long after the moan had died down.

He looked so stunning John forgot to breathe.

When Sherlock seemed to have calmed down a little John slowed his strokes on his cock, stilled his hand; left his fingers inside just a little longer, just to feel the last, delicious contractions. The last remnants of the pleasure he’d given him.

Nothing – not even his own orgasms – gave John more satisfaction, than seeing how his touch could quieten Sherlock’s mind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a pip if you enjoyed :)


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